


November

by InfiniteJediLove



Series: Modern Jinnobi AU [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Car Accident, First Meeting, Formal Suits, Hurt Obi-Wan, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern AU, Possibly Triggering, Qui-Gon rescues Obi-Wan, drama/angst, hurt Qui-Gon, jinnobi, office workplace, physical injuries, protective Qui-Gon, sociology - Freeform, thoughtful Qui-Gon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 17:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteJediLove/pseuds/InfiniteJediLove
Summary: After years of monotonous work, in a city that he’s grown indifferent to, Quentin Jan contemplates his past, unaware that everything in his future is about to change when he rescues an injured man from a terrible car accident.





	November

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone! I never thought I’d ever write a Jinnobi Modern AU, but here it is, my first one! I love that people are so inspired by modern AU’s and I’ve read quite a few good ones, but I’ve always been very attached to the sci-fi world of Star Wars and wasn’t sure I could write the Jedi Husbands in the present day. However, I asked on tumblr what people would like me to write and the response was overwhelmingly ‘Modern AU’, so I thought, eh, why not? Turns out, I really enjoyed writing Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon in a modern setting and look forward to writing more AU’s like it!
> 
> This oneshot is dedicated to 
> 
> My lovely beta, merry_amelie, for her encouragement and amazing grammar skills.  
> ahlys, who wanted an ER waiting room scene.  
> lotthecoyote, who wanted to see O and Q in formal suits in a business setting.  
> loziva, who wanted hurt/comfort.  
> and last but not least… quiobilover (Helen) who has spent a few years now waiting patiently for me to write a modern AU. Thanks for knowing I had it in me!

November was a bleak month, Quentin Jan surmised as he looked out his office window watching rain and sleet tumble down on the streets of East Harbor. People passed one another without seeing each other, scarcely noticing a homeless man who shuffled through the crowd with a large blanket wrapped around him, his elderly face caved in with despair. The old man disappeared quickly into a shelter across the street whose doors were always held open for those who needed it, no matter the weather.

A frown crossed Quentin’s leonine features. He had joined East Harbor’s Sociological Research Center ten years ago for the same purpose as the shelter: to help those who were suffering and to try to enact change in a place where the divide between the rich and poor widened every day. The hope that he had then had stalled. Where he worked didn’t seem that different now from any other corporate office. He spent his days occupied with tedious paperwork that had to be catalogued and sent to governmental departments who would then ignore the majority of his carefully typed reports, wasting months of research.

The formal suits that he’d scorned at university now filled his closet, while the works of Weber, Marx, and Durkheim that he’d once thumbed through daily were packed away somewhere. He was, he thought with a half-ironic smile on his face, part of the machine now. He might as well cut his long graying hair short and shave off his beard; it would likely happen soon enough.

A soft knock on the open door caused him to turn and greet one of the secretaries who entered his office, her heels rapping against the hardwood floor, her hand extended with a file. Quentin accepted it with a small word of thanks, watching her leave without really seeing her. His office felt suddenly too small for him; he glanced outside but the weather was too miserable to open the window to allow a breeze. He sighed, stacking the file on top of others on his desk as he sat down behind his computer and returned to work.

* * *

It was late afternoon when he left, stopping briefly at Hugh’s desk first. The man had been given an office years ago but chose to set up a desk where the building’s lobby merged into a corridor, using his office to store his impressive golf club collection instead. Hugh was a few years younger than Quentin, but had been working at East Harbor’s Sociological Research Center for a lot longer. Somehow, he’d managed to garner enough approval within the company to remain employed while still retaining a low level of eccentricity that helped break up the monotony of the workplace. Hugh mumbled a greeting around a mug of coffee, swallowing and speaking without looking up from his one-handed typing,

“Richards scheduled you to interview some new intern on Friday.”

Quentin sighed. He had never got along well with the company CEO. Most of the managers he had over the years had at least pretended to be interested in helping others, but Richards had made no secret about his dislike for ‘pandering to people’. Quentin’s rather Marxist beliefs had put him on the wrong side of the man more than once, even if he knew better than to debate the value of capitalism when Richards was around.

“Who’s the intern?” he asked, leaning over Hugh’s desk to watch as the stocky dark-haired man dug through a stack of paperwork. Quentin shifted his long wool coat where he had it tucked over his arm, feeling the cold rush of air coming in from the revolving doors of the lobby.

“A Princeton graduate,” Hugh mumbled, finally pulling out the file he was looking for and handing it to Quentin, “name’s Orrin Kent. Take a look at his G.P.A.”

Quentin flipped open the folder, large fingers brushing aside the coversheet of the man’s resume. He blinked, dark blue eyes widening as he scanned the listed scholarships and achievements on the back of the page as well.

“He did this well at Princeton and he wants to work _here_?” he asked, unable to fathom why the man hadn’t applied for a position at a much more prestigious research center.

East Harbor wasn’t even considered a city when compared to metropolises like New York or Chicago. Hugh shrugged, running a hand over his balding head, his sleeves rolled up despite the chill seeping in through the lobby every time someone walked in from outside.

“Probably the idealistic type,” he mumbled offhandedly before raising his eyebrows at Quentin suggestively, “should be just perfect for you.”

Quentin fixed him with a stern look, setting the file back on Hugh’s desk and pulling his dark coat on over his suit jacket. Hugh had been trying for over a year to set him up with any available man in East Harbor it seemed, particularly coworkers, which Quentin found irritating. He had worked long enough in an office to be skeptical of the success of relationships formed in the workplace.

“This is sociology, not social work. I hope he’s prepared to spend hours researching someone else’s fieldwork,” he answered shortly, pushing his long hair back and picking up the file again. Hugh reached for his coffee, a mix of amusement and mock-consternation tugging at his mouth.

“Wow, someone’s optimism has taken a nosedive,” he remarked idly and Quentin shook his head, looking out toward the streets where the sleet was still coming down. He wondered if the shelter had had enough room for the homeless man he had seen earlier.

“It’s been a long day,” he finally answered and Hugh raised his mug in wordless agreement.

* * *

Quentin had parked his car in a nearby parking garage, the wind and rain pelting him as he pulled his coat close and strode to the garage's entrance. The smell of wet concrete and dirt wafted up toward him as he took the rickety elevator to the ninth level. He found his car among the other similar models owned by East Harbor’s middle class, unlocked the vehicle, got in, and drove back out to the streets, thinking the whole while.

There had been a time when he would have been horrified to see himself working where he was now. Sociological research had always been his dream, but he wanted to be the one studying and writing papers on ethnography and classism in America, not working in an office, dressed in formal suits, and driving a nice car.

He’d had a motorcycle once, Quentin mused, remembering the battered Triumph with a fond smile. It had broken down more often than it had run, but he used to ride it through the streets of the small town he had lived in. When it wasn’t working he’d simply walked to where he needed to go. He could still do that, he supposed. He was fit, his body still lean and strong despite middle-age. But somehow, just walking in East Harbor depressed him. He hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed the empty beauty of the countryside until he’d left home.

He shook his head, determined not to keep dwelling on the past. November weather always made him too morose. Rain and ice hit his windshield and he slowed down carefully, glancing toward the line of cars on the highway. The sleet and rain had backed up traffic enough that he could not see where the vehicles in front of him ended. Still, the evening rush kept them all driving quickly, lanes spread out like fast-moving ribbons, cars zipping by. Quentin reached to turn the windshield wipers up higher, squinting through the winter storm, relief flooding him as he entered a long underpass that would offer protection, no matter how brief, from the thick sleet.

A sudden noise broke through, echoing in the tunnel, a shriek so animalistic that he did not recognize it at first as being the squeal of tires. Quentin only had time to look up, to see the long snake of traffic in front of him jerk violently, cars swerving out of place, something fast coming the wrong way in his lane. He swore, instinctively yanking the wheel to the right. The empty passenger side of his car smashed into stone, his vehicle spinning, the airbag expanding forth as a bruising rush of noise swallowed him.

His shoulder slammed into the driver-side window, his head hitting the headrest hard enough to see stars. Blood filled his mouth and Quentin automatically spat it out, blinking rapidly as he tried to breathe around the pain in his chest. It seemed to take a long time for him to realize that the car was no longer moving. He fumbled with his seatbelt, his bruised torso protesting each movement. Adrenaline was flooding through him. The screech of brakes, the impact of vehicles hitting each other and the walls of the underpass engulfed him.

The emergency first-aid training he had learned decades ago in high school was suddenly there, telling him to move. He pulled open the driver door, barely registering that his car tilted precariously now from the way it had crashed against the side of the tunnel. A vehicle in front of him was spun nearly all around, screams echoing. Headlights glowed jarringly in the shadows, lighting up pockets of the tunnel as sleet blew in from the road.

Quentin’s feet hit the cold concrete, barely aware of how his legs trembled or the blood on him, a shock of color across the white dress shirt beneath his open coat. He was bleeding from the scalp but it did not seem bad and he ignored it, stumbling toward the screams. The tunnel was full of damaged cars, lights still flashing, wipers still sweeping back and forth.

He unknowingly swore again, a hand to his mouth as he noticed a small gray car that must have taken the first impact of the crash, it had clearly rolled over multiple times, crushing windows and doors in the process. It lay upside down partway in the opposite lane where those unaware of the wreckage would not see it until too late. Something hung barely visible in the mangled ruin and Quentin was suddenly running, ducking past a man who was shouting loudly at everyone to stand back.

The cold sharpness of the winter air cut straight through to his lungs and he thought nothing but a silent overwhelming litany of _‘please, please, please’_ as he dropped to his knees by the car. He reached through the shattered window and felt the softness of human hair, the impossible weight of limbs suspended, caught in a cage of seatbelt and exposed wires.

Jumper cables were embedded partway into the windshield, flung loose likely from the backseat. The stuffing of the car’s seating was visible; the whole interior seemed turned inside out. Quentin knew the dangers of moving someone who had suffered blunt-force trauma, but there was no other solution; he could not leave the person to die. He stripped his coat off, the fabric too cumbersome to move in as he slid his upper body partway through the driver’s window. It was difficult since the car had been smashed inward, his broad shoulders scraping against glass, sharp edges catching into his suit and long hair as he turned his head.

The man in the car hung grotesquely upside-down, blood streaming from his mouth and a gash above his eye. He was moving faintly, though Quentin could not tell whether the movement was a deliberate effort to free himself or unconscious seizing. There was no time to consider anything other than that he get the man out of the vehicle before they were hit by oncoming traffic.

The smell of blood filled his senses, mixing with the wet scent of snow, hot rubber, and metal. He could not reach the safety-belt clasp and Quentin’s large hands fumbled against a smaller body, trying to pull the straps back enough to tug the man loose. He clawed uselessly at the thick bands encasing the man, desperately wishing he still carried a pocketknife. _The keys_ , he realized wildly. His own were still in his car, but the man’s keys hung uselessly from the ignition and he reached up toward the steering wheel, yanking them out. His thumb ran blindly along the edges of each until he found one rarely used, the grooves still sharp.

It was too dark to see more than shapes, he felt the man’s blood splatter his own face as he hooked one strong arm against the man’s torso, holding the body as still as possible as he sawed frantically at the belt with the key. The car was old, the seatbelts flimsy enough that he could hear the strands ripping. The man was no longer moving and Quentin bit down hard on his lower lip, afraid that saying something would somehow make it worse.

There were feet around him, voices, someone tried to pull him out of the car and he lashed out with a foot, angry beyond reason. He could not feel the cold, he could feel nothing but the give of the belt, the slide of it away from his hand and the feel of bone and flesh dropping into his arms.

He edged backward from the broken window, each movement as careful as possible as he pulled the man against his chest with him. Then he was in the open, the blazing color and smoke of a flare at the opposite end of the tunnel stinging his eyes. There was more screaming, more people trying to check his injuries. Quentin pushed them aside, grabbing his coat that was half-trodden into the wet asphalt and pulling it close in an urge to protect the still figure against him. The sleet had turned to snow, a whirlwind of white outside the tunnel as the wail of distant sirens vibrated through the underpass. He shook his head, his skull aching, skin itching where blood had dried.

“It’s wet out,” he said numbly, aware of voices around him, “he’ll get cold.”

He reached to pull his wool coat over the man in his arms, stilling when he looked down. It was the face of man in his twenties, possibly thirties. It was bloodied and bruised, each contusion a dark mass on skin that was ice pale in the dark of the tunnel. The hair was too soaked in blood to know its color. The bones didn’t seem like bones, so limp was the man in his arms. A terrible fear overwhelmed Quentin. Had he killed the man by moving him? Should he have waited for the paramedics who were already approaching?

Someone put a hand on his shoulder, but he did not notice. He stripped his tie off with numb fingers and tried to bind a gash on the man’s arm. The features before him twitched suddenly. Someone yelled something to the crowd surrounding him, shock and hope evident in their voice. Relief thundered through Quentin, and he cupped the man’s face gently with his palm, astonished to see it awaken at his touch, eyes barely fluttering open.

“Oh, God…” Quentin whispered and whether it was a prayer or a curse, he did not know.

* * *

He stayed with the man in the ambulance, the paramedics seeming to know it would be impossible to try to get Quentin to leave in a different ambulance. He sat on the small bench that ran around the edges of the interior, eyes on the gurney in the middle of the ambulance where the man was strapped securely. A thin white blanket covered the lower body, red stains darkening it in spots as a paramedic used scissors to cut the man’s shirt off, dropping the fabric aside. The material was so soaked in blood that Quentin could not tell what the original color had been. He swallowed, unable to look away as the paramedics worked quickly around the man, stabilizing him and trying to treat the worst of his injuries.

A silver chain around the man’s neck was cut loose, falling unnoticed to the floor. Quentin picked it up, turning it in his large palm, barely noticing the blood and dirt on his own hand. A tiny pendent hung from the chain, some sort of gemstone, a clear brilliant blue, the prismatic cut catching the bright light in the ambulance. Blue topaz, Quentin realized and somewhere from the part of his mind still unfrozen by what had happened, he remembered it was the birthstone for November.

The ambulance jostled through the streets, sirens screaming but all of it seemed outside of him. Quentin could think of nothing but the man on the gurney. A slender hand hung limply off the side and he took it in his, the fingers were lightly callused, strong but breakable in his larger hand. One of the paramedics looked up at him, the woman’s face drawn but not unkind. She seemed about to speak but then looked away, returning to monitoring the man’s pulse.

* * *

The momentary calm in the ambulance ended as soon as they entered the hospital, doctors descended around them, yells and bright lights swung past his vision and Quentin staggered, putting a hand up to his head and pulling back at the slick-stickiness of blood in his hair. He wasn’t sure whose blood it was anymore. The man he had rescued was being rolled by him on a wheeled table, his vitals yelled out from nurses to doctors, so that Quentin caught only disjointed words. A doctor was demanding they prep for surgery immediately and Quentin moved, without thinking, to follow. Someone lightly took hold of his arm, he halted, staring blankly at a woman in blue scrubs. She was much shorter than he was, with dark hair and a thick accent.

“Sir, you can’t go in there,” she stated softly.

He looked past her, toward the white swinging doors at the end of the hall where the doctors had disappeared with the man. The room tilted around him and she tried to guide him to a chair. He shook his head, moving away slightly.

“Sir, I’m going to get a doctor to look at your injuries,” she said. Her voice was calm and professional, but he knew from the way her eyes widened at the sight of him that he was a mess.

The red of his blood was vivid in the white hospital lights, his hair, face, and upper body stained with it. The open collar of his once white shirt felt suddenly as if it were closed tight against his throat, the world spinning around him. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, feeling the hard surface of the silver chain imprint into his skin from where he clenched it in a closed fist.

* * *

It snowed hard after that, as if making up for lost time. It was barely a week from Thanksgiving and already Christmas decorations were everywhere that Quentin turned. Even Hugh had a small tree weighing down a portion of his desk, his voice drifting disembodied from behind it as he worked.

Quentin paused in the middle of his typing, staring blankly at the document pulled up on his desktop. Since the accident, he’d felt a strange mix of apprehension and gratitude. Everything seemed sacred and beautiful yet somehow not quite real. He reached up, touching his chest. Below the curve of his tie around his neck he felt the sturdy weight of the chain. He had contacted the hospital numerous times in the last few days and had not been able to find out who the man was that he had rescued, nor how to return the pendent. He had taken to wearing it, without really knowing why. Perhaps to remember the terror or it all, or perhaps to remember those moments of overpowering relief when the man’s body had been safe in his arms.

It had been almost a week and the bruises on Quentin’s torso were still dark. Coworkers had only now stopped visiting his office to reassure themselves that yes, he was still alive. Others, Quentin knew, were not so lucky. The East Harbor Times had run an article about the accident, stating that it had been caused by a car traveling in the wrong lane after the driver, an unnamed elderly woman, had had a heart attack. Bad weather conditions and congested traffic had made it impossible for the other vehicles to respond safely.

The panic that Quentin had felt was still there whenever he recalled the way the lane of traffic had twisted in on itself and the terrible noise of the crash. Three people were killed, twenty-four seriously injured. The paper had not listed names. His own injuries had been minor, a slight concussion, a wrenched shoulder, a scrape along the chest, and bruising from the seatbelt had been the worst of it. Even his car could still be driven, once it had been towed from the tunnel and had the right front tire replaced. He’d had Hugh pick it up and drive it back to his apartment. He had not wanted to get behind the wheel, not when he was still dreaming about the accident.

He exited the document he was working on, going to the window and staring out it once more. The same people he had seen days ago were walking past; the shelter’s doors were still open. He looked at the small shabby building and couldn’t resist a smile. Richards had been outraged when he’d handed in his two-week notice three days ago, claiming the concussion had damaged Quentin’s brain. Why else would a man with Quentin’s success want to quit everything and work for a homeless shelter for a vastly smaller income? The question alone made it clear to Quentin why leaving the Sociological Research Center was the right choice. He had only a few tasks left to complete over his next few days. Most of the staff were understanding, if a bit shocked.

Quentin walked over to the table against one wall of his office, shifting aside a plant that the other employees had given him when he had come back to work. The file for the new intern, Orrin Kent, sat there, the edges slightly water-stained. Somehow it had remained completely intact during the crash, barely shifting more than a foot on the passenger seat, Hugh had informed him when he had dropped the folder off a few days ago. Quentin had looked through it closely, if only to keep his mind off other things.

The intern’s resume was brilliant. He had little work experience but an impressive list of achievements from Princeton. He focused more on Gender and LGBT Studies than Classism, but he’d done a fair amount of work with the impoverished in his home state before moving to East Harbor. It was clear that the Sociological Research Center was not where Kent wanted to spend the rest of his days. He was looking for work experience to help toward other goals. Quentin smiled, pushing aside a wayward strand of hair that had fallen loose from where he’d pulled it back out of his way. The intern had listed his aspiration to work directly with the public and to research ways to increase more minority-friendly programs in rural areas. He would undoubtedly get the job in East Harbor, but Richards would be furious to know he’d hired another employee with different ambitions than climbing the corporate ladder.

Quentin checked the time. It was nearly five. The intern’s interview would be in a half-hour, but judging from what he’d gleaned of the man’s personality in the file, the intern would be early. He moved around the table, setting out water, seeing the ghostly blur of his own reflection in the polished metal surface: dark blue suit, long gray-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, his neatly trimmed beard a bit more scruffy than usual. The silver chain around his neck pressed against his collarbone as he moved and he touched it absently again, turning back to surveying the street below, watching snow settle silently along the sidewalks, concealing the grime of the city.

The intern was late. The door to Quentin’s office was not knocked on until almost ten minutes after the time the meeting was supposed to start. He looked up as a secretary led Orrin Kent into the room, leaving with the clicking of her heels and the faint radio-sound of Christmas music echoing briefly down the hall.

Quentin stood very suddenly. The room was painfully quiet now. The man across from him stepped forward before stopping abruptly, his eyes searching Quentin’s face intently. Quentin could do nothing but stare at the thin man who wore a black suit and slender back tie, the look sleek and attractive, even if the suit coat was a bit large for his smaller-shouldered frame. Bruises, dark purple, ringed one eye, and splayed outward like an exploding star along the left cheekbone. Visible stitches trailed above the man’s eyebrow and across the opposite cheek. In his suffering, he was wholly recognizable and Quentin knew, despite his own professional appearance, he too was remembered.

He swallowed, still staring, still unsure how to consider that despite the size of the city and the randomness of the universe, the man he had pulled from the wreckage was the same man who stepped closer to him, extending a hand. Quentin took it, remembering the ambulance ride; the same fingers that were limp before now gripped his own with a steadiness he held fast to.

“Orrin Kent,” Quentin murmured, dazed.

The intern nodded. His short hair was an appealing shade of auburn, his eyes large, a clear greenish shade that was arresting up close.

“I apologize for being late,” Orrin said quietly. His voice held a hidden warmth to it, an almost shyness that filled Quentin with his own sudden hesitance. He swallowed and found himself unable to hold back a smile.

“I am pleased you could make it,” he said into the stillness surrounding them. “I’m Quentin Jan.”

Quentin let go of the man’s hand, feeling the loss with a strange acuteness. He reached up, hooking his fingers into the collar of his shirt and drawing out the silver chain. He unfastened it, passing the pendent over to Orrin, who took it with trembling fingers, looking down at the small blue stone.

“I repaired the chain,” Quentin remarked, suddenly unsure. “The paramedics cut it off from you. I tried calling the hospital to return it, but I didn’t know how to find you.”

Orrin looked up at him, the man’s seriousness shifting into an unexpected smile that was as compelling as his unusual eye color. Only the bruises marred his expression, a present reminder of the tunnel and the fear that had been there.

“I’m glad that you did,” Orrin replied, sincerity evident in the softened tone of his voice.

Quentin sat down, wordlessly gesturing the man to the other seat across from him, unable to look away as Orrin slipped the chain over his neck, not bothering to tuck it into his collar, the gemstone hanging bright against his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> A milllion thanks again to merry_amelie for betaing! 
> 
> It’s currently 95 degrees in my house right now and boiling sunny, but somehow I chose to write the exact opposite sort of weather in this fic. Weird. 
> 
> Hugh is not a Star Wars character in disguise, he’s purely invented by me for this fic.
> 
> I loved the idea of O and Q wearing formal suits, I kept Qui-Gon’s (Quentin) hair and beard as it is in Ep. 1 because I couldn’t bring myself to cut his hair. It’s too pretty. Plus, I think he’d still rock a dark blue suit with long hair and a beard. The early 1960’s black mod suits, with their sleek fit and slender black tie, inspired the suit Obi-Wan (Orrin) wears at the end. I find the look very professional and attractive the few times I’ve seen Ewan sport it. 
> 
> I love that the actors are a Scotsman and an Irishman, but I’m playing it a bit safe for my first modern AU and setting it in an American city that I’m more familiar with. Actually, East Harbor is a made up name, but it’s based directly off a small city about 50 miles from where I live.
> 
> I’ve never been in a bad car accident, nor witnessed one. I apologize if there are inaccuracies with how the crash is written, or the injuries sustained. I’ve tagged it as graphic, and the summary mentions the accident, but please let me know if you want me to put a trigger warning up about the car accident/injuries at the beginning of the fic.
> 
> For those wondering why I chose sociological research as the business setting: it’s one of the few fields of study I have some knowledge in, having taken a few college classes on the subject. I figured since this was a modern AU, there’s only so much I can realistically fake. Qui-Gon always struck me as a bit of a free spirit and anti-establishment person in his own way, so I chose to empathize his focus on more marxist philosophies. Also, the era of sociological theory being as it is, the focus on classism, marxism, and the rights of the poor (as well as the study of poverty) was one of the most popular branches of sociological study in the 1960’s-1980’s in the US. Today, Sociology has expanded to many other fields as well, which is why I had Obi-Wan’s (Orrin) area of expertise be in Gender Studies and LGBT studies. 
> 
> I do want to end this note mentioning the 2018 Jinnobi Challenge. For those of you who have already heard this spiel on tumblr, you can skip this part of the note :), but for those on A03 who are unaware of the challenge, let me fill you in:
> 
> The Jinnobi Challenge is an annual challenge I started last year that celebrates the glorious ship of Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan. (link for last year’s master list) --> https://infinitejedilove.tumblr.com/post/167165216008/the-jinnobi-challenge-master-list-2017
> 
> The challenge runs from October 1 – October 28, 2018. It is open to everyone and everything (Art, poetry, photo manips, videos, gifsets, fanfiction, etc) as long as it is Obi-Wan Kenobi/Qui-Gon Jinn. For more information, like how to enter and the few (but important!) rules of the challenge, please check out my official post on it on tumblr or livejournal (link) --> https://quiobisupport.livejournal.com/253892.html


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